


how are the mighty fallen, and the weapons of war perished!

by 90scyke (peachypiper)



Category: Marvel 616, X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: (it got way longer than i expected), (its a lot of christian bullshit idk), (just as a reminder yknow? ig?), (kinda? its like. a long vignette), (sdjkldsf i don't know how to tag things), Angst, Avengers vs X-men, Gen, Memories, Mentions of Character Death, Priests, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Retrospective, Spoilers for Avengers vs X-men, Vignette, it's canon though so no biggie but it's a little emotional, its just kinda that whole "incinerated" thing, like. warnings here:, mild body horror, post-AvX
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-03-01 19:49:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13301979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachypiper/pseuds/90scyke
Summary: the battle is over. there are no winners. the perpetrators have been taken into custody, the "heroes" who came out closest to the top rejoice at their "victory" and sigh in relief. the only details that can be ascertained through the chaos are that the mutant population has been restored and that the world - no, the whole galaxy - barely escaped utter destruction. and scott summers, now branded a dangerous mutant terrorist by those in power, is taking most (if not all) of the blame.





	how are the mighty fallen, and the weapons of war perished!

**Author's Note:**

> i was upset about avx (not that i'm ever not upset about it) so you guys get this bc i needed to work out some emotions. i also got really into scott's martyr complex shit so you get a bunch of christian symbolism and stuff.  
> takes place sometime before uncanny x-men (2012) #20 if you're worried about continuity!

The prison chaplain visits him most days. Scott doesn’t know how to tell him it’s not necessary, that he’s never been a religious man. It’s ironic, he thinks, a smile toying at his lips, how he was so close to godhood and yet - there’s no deity he believes in, no miracles he subscribes to. How is he supposed to blindly subscribe to a philosophy of a benevolent God when he's been hunted since childhood because of his eyes? It's too cruel - just the thought of it makes him sick.

But maybe he shouldn’t tell that to the chaplain. It’s sweet, really, this tottering, gentle old priest, collar starched like the day it was bought, pushing a leather-bound Bible across the table to him. He exhorts him to use it, and Scott tries his hardest not to laugh. It wouldn’t be kind after all the charity he’s shown Scott.

“You know, Mr. Summers, redemption - if you so wish - is within your grasp. You are not beyond hope. You simply have to work for it.”

He can’t be redeemed. It doesn’t work that way.

It’s not that he’s afraid of the work - Scott’s never been one to shy away from hard labor of any kind. The simple fact of the matter is that he isn’t looking for guidance. There’s nowhere for him to go, no further path to take. He did what was necessary. He’s made peace with his actions, accepted his crimes, justified his sacrifices. Now, all he’s got is time. Time and guilt. There’s no deliverance in his future.

At night, though, he wonders. As the stars twinkle in the sky far above his basement cell, their light only a vague memory, he wonders. Wonders if martyrs before him felt the way he did, if they, too wished to be saved. If Joan of Arc felt the sting of betrayal and loss more than the flames licking her feet. If Socrates felt any turmoil as the poison in his wine consumed him. If maybe he was wrong, if everything he did was in vain, if he’ll even be remembered for anything but his sins. It terrifies him, the future and what it holds, sometimes more than his past.

Other nights, he simply remembers. Remembers the pure power, the unfettered strength, that infinite _puissance_ \- how beautiful it felt to be a god among men. Maybe that’s what he should tell the chaplain, he muses. How he was a god, an angel, an avatar of destruction and rebirth; how he was fire and life incarnate, he was Phoenix!

And oh, oh, how hard he fell! He reached up to touch the sun and was cast out with his wings of wax melted and his mind muddied. He was a child standing on the Tower of Babel, teasing God, unaware of the sandstone crumbling beneath him until it was too late. And as he plummeted, all he could do was cry.

He sees the faces of his friends, his lovers, his mentor, his family flash before him as he relives each moment.

First it’s Emma, her golden hair glowing in the sunlight, her piercing blue eyes seeing straight through to his soul, her perfect smirk outlined in frosty rose-colored lipstick - God, how he loves her, how complete she makes him feel. She teases him, snarks at him, plays him like a Stradivarius, dominates him in every way imaginable and even in ways he didn’t, but she loves him. She’s kind of an asshole, but that’s okay - he needs someone like that in his life, someone who’ll stop him from getting too self-righteous. They’re so happy together; she’s able to make him bold and brash in a way no one ever has. He watches her fall to the ground as he destroys her, watches her incredulity and skepticism turn to fear. Did he really mean for all this to happen?

Then it’s Xavier, his thin, wispy voice issuing Scott orders in the Danger Room, then on the field in his first missions. He congratulates him, every word reverberating with pride, and Scott knows he’ll never feel as fulfilled as he does now. He’s like a father to him, a comforting presence in his every waking moment. Xavier’s there at every turn, and he’s often rude and selfish, but Scott still loves him anyway; his approval and acceptance mean everything to him. He watches himself yelling at his mentor, so angry and disillusioned, watches himself reduce the closest thing he had to a father to cinders with his fury; watches himself cry over Xavier’s crumbling body, screaming for help over the din of the fire in his mind.

Next it’s Jean, her red hair as fiery as her personality. She’s so inexperienced at first, they all are, only able to lift small objects with her mind. It’s odd to him - after all, they have to have some modicum of “usefulness” to be able to fight in the Professor’s war - but she proves her worth over and over and over, never backing down from a challenge, and he finds himself falling in love. She’s beautiful, kind, funny; he’s awkward, stiff, and afraid. Somehow, they fit right into one another. They’re a hurricane and its eye, a perfect storm of love and disaster, of beauty and tragedy. They’re cosmic - the universe can’t keep them apart. He watches her die in space, then commit suicide in his arms on the moon, then die once again at Xorn’s hands, the Phoenix tearing her apart with each separate possession. He listens to her voice in the White Hot Room, calling him an idiot, and he feels relieved. He doesn’t know why, but it’s gone so quickly that he can’t remember. He’s falling again.

Then he sees Hank, his intellectualism grating but endearing, his movie-star grin always managing to make Scott smile as well. He’s blue, but that’s okay; they’re fighting so that people like him and Scott and Kurt and everyone else can live without being seen as threats, without having to play the victim in every scenario. Without having to surrender their lives every time they step outside the Institute. They’re the serious ones, but Scott jokes with Hank. They can trust each other with their lives, with their dumb emotions and irritations, like teammates, like _friends_ . But now they’ve grown apart, and Hank is so infuriatingly unwilling to listen, he thinks, he doesn’t seem to understand the horror their kids will face. They have to train them to defend themselves, not so they can be soldiers in another war, but so that they won’t _die_ , goddammit! And after it all, he sees Hank’s anger, pure, unbridled rage, all directed at him. He sees his perfect “I told you so” face contorted in disgust as he shows Scott the horrors of his actions.

Others fly by, their names and faces a blur. It’s Logan, his lover, and Ororo, his friend, and Erik, his confidant, and Betsy, and Namor, and Illyana and Piotr and Rachel and Bobby and Kitty and Warren and Rogers and Stark and Wanda and -

It always ends with Hope.

When he wakes up in the morning after nights like those, it’s like there’s nothing left of him. Time has driven him past the phase where he couldn’t sleep for fear of going back under, unable to control himself and forced to watch himself indiscriminately tear apart all he holds dear, but it’s still no walk in the park. He’s been burned up with the Phoenix, but not really - just burned up by his own memories. He feels empty, like a shell filled with guilt and self-loathing. He can’t shake the weight of his actions and it threatens to crush him. Sometimes, he just wishes it would. At least in death, he wouldn’t have to feel anything.

“I am not a good man. I gave up that title long ago. I don’t like it, but we become what we have to be. We do what we have to in order to survive,” Scott explains to the chaplain, every syllable even and measured. “I didn’t want to do what I did; I didn’t have any control. And it still haunts me. Everything I’ve done, every person I hurt, every relationship I tore apart, every goddamn promise I broke. Every infernal fire I relished in creating. I hate remembering what I did under the Phoenix’s influence.”

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes behind the visor, tears pooling behind his eyelids. That the older man can’t see his eyes provides a little comfort. “But I saved my people. They’ll survive now. They’ll be okay. And maybe they won’t have to be statistics. Maybe they won’t have to be child soldiers. Maybe they won’t end up like _me_. Maybe they won’t end up broken.”

The chaplain raises his eyebrows and places his wizened hands gently on Scott’s shackled ones. “Son…”

“There’s no heaven for people like me, Father. There’s only hell, and I’ve lived it. I _am_ living it. I'll live it until I die, and even after then. I have to. And I accept that.”


End file.
